Bat in the Land of Ice
by GothLoli
Summary: In the back of his head all he thinks is, she is not a princess, she is not a princes.


He sees her floating toward you through the opened window. She's wearing a slightly suggestive punk-rock vest, complete with dark ripped jeans cluttered with chains and long black boots.

Suddenly, she starts walking and the _click, click, click_, of her heels if foreboding.

And he thinks, _she doesn't need to walk_. She doesn't have to walk. He's pretty sure she doesn't even like to walk.

But she does. And it sort of fills him with dread.

Beside him, Gunther let's out a, "Quack."

"Hey cutie," she coos at Gunther, and bends to cup his blank face with her hands in order to give him a nuzzle, "Mamma's home."

He almost cringes, because whenever she says Mama, he thinks about how many times he's called himself Gunther's Daddy.

In any case, she stops coddling Gunther and smirks.

She smirks right at him.

He glances away and finds that Gunther is out of sight.

Ghost Gunther, chills.

He hears her _click, click, click _again and watches as she gets closer and closer. He wonders briefly why he's so immobile.

Before he can answer himself, he finds her wrapping her arms around his neck. He freezes, stiffens just a smidge, and she's running her index finger along the points of his crown.

"Hey cutie," she says softly, looking straight into his eyes, "Mama's home."

This isn't her home.

She presses her lips to his. Gently, she bites his lower lip, and kisses him again, each time a little less gentle. She licks across his lips and they part, ever so slightly, and it's enough for her to dig deeper. Her tongue slides in and teases his. Before you know it, she has it tasting everything she can find. But she pays attention to his tongue, which has developed a mind of it's own. It's caressing hers, fighting hers, wanting the undivided attention of hers.

In the back of his head all he thinks is, _she is not a princess, she is not a princes._

And that matters. For one reason or another, it matters.

He wants a princess. He needs one. He knows there's a special reason why. He tries to recall it, but the crown on his head sends a screech through his body. It's awful and he nearly jumps.

She stops kissing him, and for a fraction of a second he thinks she's felt his jolt. But no, she's only letting a space sneak in before she gentle trails kisses along his jaw line. Lower still to his neck, covered by his beard.

As she goes lower, his wizard eyes are making him see horrible things. Grotesque things. As if it's the crowns special way of telling him that it doesn't want her. That it wants him to throw her. But he can't bring himself to do so.

She stops again and rides her leg on his leg, until her thigh is net to his, and then she leans forward on him. He feels the weight, and heat, of her lower body being so close to his. Their lips are nearly touching.

"You know…" she says, her voice partly husky, her breath kissing his mouth, "I would _love_…" she trails her finger along his nose, "…to suck the _red_ out of your crown."

They fall to the floor.

The impact is more on him, he's sure, but as her body rubs off against his she smiles a wicked smile and he knows that she felt the most.

Again, she leans in and kisses him. It's almost savage. For the first time he closes his eyes and doesn't think of stopping. His arms are finally functional, and his moves his hand along her thigh, higher to her tight behind.

He feels her tighten her grip on his shoulders, and suddenly she's dry humping him. The friction he feels his burning, and the rough texture of her jeans is something he can do without. She moves her other leg and now both are straddling him. He quickly grabs her other leg and slightly jumps to meet her.

She pushes her upper body up. She's on her knees, but she's looking down on him, his back is to the cold ground. She rides him a little, continuing the game, but drops it. He watches her hands move up her vest, smoothing over her exposed mid-rift, breasts, until she reaches the zipper. Down it goes. She throws her vest away, he gets a really good view of her chest.

Once more she leans and kisses him. She's hungry and he'll feed her.

He feels her tug at his rob, pulling it up. She knows there's nothing underneath she can't get rid off. He helps her, jerking every which way, and she tries to keep the contact by rubbing her body against his. Once it's high enough, he hears her pants zip and he's already tugging at them. He can already feel her soft skin, and he wraps her panty-straps around his finger and pulls them down too.

It's a less glamorous scene in their play, with all the tugging and pulling. She struggles to get her boots off, and he works on getting the rest of her pants. If she got off him it would be easier, but it's like she doesn't want to be without his body.

It's a struggle, but it gets done.

Her boots and pants and underwear long gone, she pull the rest of his robe clean away. Now she can focus on more important things.

She looks down at him, smoothing her hand on his chest, his stomach, until her eyes feast of something else. He can hear her laugh a little. How he covers himself with make-shift underwear is something that amuses her. As if he didn't work under there. As if some horrible accident happened and he needed to cover his private self with bandages.

With her long and skilled finger nails, she rips and rips. He looks up to the ceiling and wonders about nothing. Finally, he feels the chill.

The cold of his castle comes crashing down on the heat of his yearning.

He hisses. The contrast is a bit to much. But it's also enticing. He also knows that he's really hard by now, so he wonders what she thinks about his size.

Is it enough? Is it what she wants? If he adequate? Does she care?

He figures it's all of the above.

She slides into him, letting out a moan. He can't help but do so as well.

Her body pressed against him, she begins to ride. Sliding herself, their heat overcomes the cold. He tightly clenches her thighs and pushes her further. It's here that he notices how skeletal his body is compared to her luscious form.

She's supposed to be dead. She is dead. Yet, she's fleshy and perfect, toned to perfection as she goes up and down on him. He can feel her muscles flex with every thrust. He pulls his head back and he lifts his hips to go deeper into her. Another contradiction: he, the king of ice, feelings such heat as she groans into his chest.

She's so different from a princess. But what exactly is his comparing her to? Bonnible? Maybe a more broad view. Princess are noble and kind and sweet. She's dirty and ruthless and dark.

And _tight_.

He groans again, feeling her wetness overflow. Spill on him.

They're almost there.

They're breaths are erratic and she kisses him again. He kisses her back. Sweat and saliva mixed with lust and the taste of each other.

He feels intoxicated with her. Shadows are engulfing him and he hold her waist tightly. Her fingers dig into his head and more and more their thrust become harder. He feels her back, her breasts, her neck, he kisses her everywhere he can.

She wants him and calls to him. He wants to breathe. Breathe her in and feels her forever.

The peak is like the top of an iceberg. High and cold and perfect.

She collapses on him.

Huffing and puffing take the place of words. He doesn't necessarily like the way back down, he'd rather stay up with her, but gravity has a mind of it's own.

He misses the peak. Afterglow is something only alive things do.

Still silence is everywhere. They're both inside their own heads. He knows there's nothing wrong with that. It's not like they regret anything. It's the opposite. They're relaxed, so why not enjoy it?

She snuggles on him and he almost finds it cute. His robe is now her blanket, and his long beard is like a vest rug.

"That was amazing," she says, nipping at his jaw.

"You're amazing," and he's being completely honest here.

He can feel her smirk.

She begins to lift herself up, but he grabs her arm and stops her dead in her tracks.

"Why?" he says.

"Well, I've read the Karma Sutra more times than I can-"

"_Why_?"

He knows that she understands.

Why _this_? Why _him_?

She relaxes and playfully twirls his hair around her fingers. And like little legs she's skipping them across the bald spot on his head.

He feels old suddenly. Too old for her. She's so young. But then, _she's_ probably older than him…

Huh, he's being predatorized by a pedo.

By now she's playing with his nose again. And for a moment he feels like it shouldn't be there. That it was smaller.

"Because…" she says, "You remind me of someone…a nerdy guy…some random bench in the park…he asked me why I was wearing a snow hat in the summer…he didn't know I was hiding my ears."

She laughs and rests o him again.

For a moment he recalls something. A memory of a memory?

In any case, he _gets _her.

Maybe this is why it works.

They're lived too long. Seen too much.

He reaches for her hand and holds it. She doesn't mind.

Maybe this Ice King will get a Vampire Queen?


End file.
